Cicatrix
by JustAlliHere
Summary: She is already scarred beyond comprehension, but she will not make it out of this new life unscathed.
1. Chapter One: Burn

**This story focuses mostly around an OC. Just so everyone is aware.**

**I don't own anything recognizable in the following fic. **

**Basically, this is just a test run to see what kind of response I can get with this and how everyone feels about it. Feel free to leave improvement and ideas in a review and I will definitely try to take it into consideration, but also remember this is just the first chapter-more of an introduction than anything.**

**There's a little glossary included at the beginning, just Russian words that will be used, not necessarily in this chapter but most likely eventually. Most of them are pretty obvious as to why they're there, and I will add more as they come up. I've written them using the English alphabet because it is easier to guess at a pronunciation that way. Everything comes from Google translate, and we all know that's always right. Enjoy.**

* * *

**Cicatrix**

She is already scarred beyond comprehension, but she will not make it out of this new life unscathed.

* * *

_nadezhda- hope_

_alkaev(a)- from the verb 'alkat'; to wish; to be wished_

* * *

**i. Burn**

_**Stalingrad (Volgograd), Russia / **__**Ireland / **__**Germany / **__**Caribbean Islands - 1950-1999**_

Her earliest memory is of a knife.

She remembers the way the wooden handle felt against her palm the first time she held it, and the way the blade felt when she didn't hit the supplied target.

After that, there is a lot of red.

There is a pretty girl, several years older, with fiery red curls who calls her _Nadezhda_ in private in a voice just as pretty as she is. She teaches her things when the others with them are asleep: how to throw the knife correctly, how to keep the different, strange men that watch over them happy. She teaches her several languages and talks of other places, beautiful, faraway places she wants to visit someday in a language that the other girls won't understand, but only when the men are away.

She teaches her how to hide the small things she wishes to keep, how to use other weapons, guns and sometimes a bow and arrow, and how to punch and kick and not even need a weapon.

The girl's hair mixes with the amount of blood that comes with her training. It is her own and others; more often than not, she makes them bleed herself.

The training is long and hard and gruesome. They teach her ways to kill, more in depth than the red-headed girl ever has. They show her more weapons, teach her combat skills and ways to seduce the mark before he is to be terminated. She learns pain: ways to inflict it and ignore it and simply _be_ it.

She kills for the first time when she is eight; it is a girl even younger than she.

They teach her languages from all over the world- English, Arabic, German, French, Italian, Japanese and Chinese and more she is sure she'll never use again. Somehow, the handlers find a use for all of them.

They slip things into her bread that is not in the other girls', and they think she doesn't know that she hears them speak of her late into the night when she lies awake with a small coin tucked into her palm in an attempt to bring comfort. They push her harder than anyone else except for the red-headed girl, whom she fights against often. Neither of them ever seem to win.

When she is sent on her first mission, she goes with the girl with the fiery hair—_Natalia,_ she learns. The girl calls her Nadya sometimes, but more often than not it is still Nadezhda, the same name she gave her several years before. Natalia goes in first, smiling sweetly at the men before she pulls a gun from behind her and aims it at the first guard's eye. They don't offer any trouble.

When they return, two more girls are eliminated at the hands of a particularly nasty handler, and the other girls learn to avoid them. Some do it discreetly, but those who are obvious are placed in a sparring match against either Natalia or Nadezhda; it is a fight to the death.

She learns where Natalia often disappears to, and she learns it is not by choice.

The room is full of computers and metal tables and people with goggles and white coats who murmur about her together in small groups and makes notes as they watch her. She sees a picture of herself on a file; they have given her a last name: _Alkaeva._ They place her in a chair in a far corner, and from there she can see Natalia strapped to a metal table, calm as the people with white coats press needles into her skin.

They do the same to Nadezhda, and it _hurts_. Everything burns a fiery inferno, never ending. She sees red and thinks of Natalia's hair.

When the pain fades, she is on her own cot and Natalia is across the room, reading one of the few books the handlers allow. She does not look up as Nadezhda stands, but her gaze flickers past the text for half a second. Her presence offers comfort Nadezhda will never admit.

The people in the lab coats experiment on her more and more often, and she learns to escape to a place that is all her own when the pain hits.

She trains some with a man she has never seen before, tall with long, dark hair and blue eyes whom the handlers call the Winter Soldier. One arm is bionic, steel and impossibly strong and attached to his shoulder with a series of scars. She walks away from their fights with more broken bones than she can count, but she heals in only a few days from whatever they inject her with.

She is sent on more missions, most of them alone. She takes out mark after mark; they are old men with money and small children of wealthy people and women who have done nothing wrong that she knows of, but she has been trained not to care, not to _feel_, so she doesn't.

More of the girls are killed. They die on missions or in sparring matches or at the hands of a handler. They are not mourned, and the bodies seemingly disappear.

When the place burns, Nadezhda is one of only five left.

She smells the smoke first. When Natalia awakens suddenly, jumping from her cot, she knows it is serious, so she grabs her boots and a small bag tucked beneath her mattress and fights her way through flames and smoke to the exit. As she clears the doorway, she hears the screams of three other girls; Natalia is just behind her.

They run for a long time; Nadezhda loses count of the days. They stick together despite all that they have ever been taught.

It is not yet winter, but it is close; she can feel the air that threatens to bite at her cheeks and nose early in the mornings and as the sun sets. It is sometime close to two weeks later when they stop at a run-down motel on the outskirts of a small town Nadezhda is not familiar with. Natalia produces a wad of money from the bottom of her backpack and no questions are asked.

They don't stay there long, a couple days at most, but they are able to steal more supplies from a small convenience store near the edge of a forest with no surveillance systems to speak of. There is another motel in the next town.

The go like this for what feels like several months.

They travel north, back into Stalingrad, as the air gets colder. The first snow of the season is starting to fall when a man corners them in an alley. He knows who they are. His request is simple. It is the first job they accept as contract assassins, but Nadezhda knows it will not be the last as she takes the kill-shot with a rifle from the roof of an abandoned building.

More people hire them; some find them, but they find most. Most of the jobs are easy, and they often have more than one contracted at a time.

Eventually, they leave Russia, traveling across Europe and Asia over the years. Nadezhda kills more than she ever could've imagined. She loses track of time.

When the Soviet Union collapses, she and Natalia are in Ireland. There is only a small radio in the motel room that is mostly static, but she can make out enough of the news to understand. Natalia pauses from where she is pinning up her fiery hair and nods once absently. Nadezhda returns it, flips off the radio, and goes back to painting her mouth with bright red lipstick. They never speak of it again.

Many of the jobs include infiltrating elegant parties with fancy dresses and thousand-dollar-or-more wine. She allows old men already with wives to touch her, dance with her. She pretends to enjoy it before she puts a bullet through each of their brains or breaks their necks. The beautiful gowns go to waste. She burns each of them after the first wear.

She is made on a job for the first time in Germany. She is by herself; Natalia is stalking the perimeter, waiting for the perfect moment. The mark is laughing drunkenly in the middle of the room, but when he sees Nadezhda watching, he sidles toward her, and she smiles slowly and looks up at him through her eyelashes as he offers a dance; she accepts with a sultry curve of her mouth.

He stands too close, presses a hand too far down her back, but she pretends not to notice or care. He whispers in her ear in German promises of what he is going to do to her. Once the song ends, he leads her away, toward the elevator. Once inside, he kisses her thoroughly. His hand wraps around her bicep and tightens; he smiles down at her wickedly, all traces of drunkenness gone from his face.

"What are we going to do with you, Miss Alkaeva?" he whispers. She aims a knee at his stomach. He falls as the elevator door opens. Natalia is there; she kills him with a single shot to his head. Nadezhda nods once, and they are gone.

She is not sad to see Europe disappear behind her.

Natalia picks the destination. They travel by boat to an island in the Caribbean Sea. Nadezhda thinks of all the years before, in the Red Room, when she had just begun training, as Natalia told her of places she wished to visit. She remembers being told of beautiful islands with white sand and strange trees and blue water all around. She does not miss the smile on Natalia's face when her feet first touch the ground.

They go several months without contracting a job. It is strange, but also nice. They travel much of the island, and visit several surrounding others until one day they come to the unspoken agreement that it is time to move on.

It is the first place in forty-nine years she is sad to leave.


	2. Chapter Two: Hawk

**Disclaimer: I don't own anyone/thing you recognize, or possibly even some things you don't recognize.**

* * *

**Cicatrix**

She is already scarred beyond comprehension, but she will not make it out of this new life unscathed.

* * *

_nadezhda- hope_

_alkaev(a)- from the verb 'alkat'; to wish; to be wished_

_metkiy strelok- sharpshooter; sure shot; dead shot_

_yastreb- hawk_

_bezuprechnaya reputatsiya—clean slate_

* * *

**ii. Hawk**

_**Rio Gallegos, Argentina - May 3, 2001**_

They are in South America when Nadezhda notices the sharpshooter.

She and Natalia are in attendance of yet another party, and the silk gown alone Nadezhda wears is enough to make her skin crawl. She can feel the eyes on her as she dances and laughs and mingles; Natalia is doing the same on the other side of the overly-large ballroom. Natalia meets her eyes, and she slips away from a Brazilian diplomat who has nothing to do with the mission.

The meet up in a far corner, far away from the dance floor and bar. A waitress passes by, and Natalia takes two chutes of what look like champagne easily as she passes, offering one to Nadezhda. She takes a sip, speaking around the rim of the glass.

"He's here."

"_Yastreb_," Natalia murmurs to herself, "if he is who I believe."

Nadezhda knows of Hawkeye, of his work as a mercenary, and she knows he is just as dangerous as she, even if the rumors that he has defected are true. She eyes the glass of champagne, wishing for something stronger. She takes a step closer to Natalia; she can feel the small pistol at one thigh and the knife at the other. They are close-range weapons, and close-range fighting is not something she expects to have to deal with.

"The _metkiy strelok,"_ she agrees, smiling like the conversation is pleasant as a man nearing eighty passes in a neatly pressed suit. "The roof, perhaps?" she offers, and out of context it sounds confusing, but not dangerous.

Natalia laughs beautifully. The implications behind it make Nadezhda's skin crawl even before Natalia speaks. "But of course." Nadezhda takes a long sip from her glass, turning to look out the window.

"The stars are beautiful here," she comments easily, looking up high. There is an abandoned building across the road; she cannot see anything through the dark, but she knows where she would hide if she wanted to take out a mark in the party.

"Yes," Natalia agrees. "The roof would be the best place to see them."

She turns away from the glass, and a middle-aged man steps from the dance floor, offering a hand. He is tall and slim, with dark hair, dressed in a neat suit she recognizes as Armani. His name is Jose Amador. He is the Russian ambassador of Argentina and just who she wants to take out. "_Bailas conmigo?_" he requests. Nadezhda slips her empty glass onto a tray as a waiter passes.

"_Desde luego,_" she agrees, giving Natalia a sly smile as she accepts his hand.

He whirls her into the crowd of people, pulling her into a graceful tango. He leads, and she lets him despite her every instinct screaming at her. He talks as she spins and dips, and she wonders how much alcohol is in his system. The words run together; she can barely hear over the music. She can, however, understand him murmuring drunken sex jokes in her ear and inviting her to his room once the party is over. She offers a sultry smile.

"_Qué clase__ de chica __crees que soy_?" she asks, tilting her head closer. His eyes flutter closed as her lips brush against his.

"_Esperemos que el__ tipo en __mi cama_," he whispers, kissing her cheek as the song ends and he holds her in a dip a second longer than necessary. "_Hasta luego, bella."_

He slips through the crowd as another song starts up. He laughs as he passes a couple guests; he is surprisingly beautiful and charming.

Nadezhda exits the dance floor at the closest edge; Natalia is beside her as she does. Nadezhda nods at her, and the red-head smiles charmingly, hooking their elbows together and leading the way to the open bar.

"He's moving," Natalia confides. She orders a glass of Chardonnay when the bartender appears, but does not drink it, swirling the glass absently as she searches the dance floor with cool green eyes.

"How would you like to do this?"

Natalia finally takes a sip of her wine, and her red lipstick stains the rim of the glass. "Go with Amador," she says quietly. "I'll take care of it." Nadezhda watches her for several moments, but the redhead doesn't look back at her. Nadezhda waits patiently for her to elaborate. "_He shouldn't know about you_," she admits finally in Russian. "_I'd like to keep it that way, Nadezhda. You are more important to me than anything else._"

The words take too long to sink in; Natalia has already disappeared into the crowd when she opens her mouth. Her glass sits on the bar, almost full, stained with red lipstick. Nadezhda wonders if this will be the last she sees of the only person she's ever thought of as equal.

* * *

"What's your name?"

She wasn't fast enough, quiet enough. The shot went wide. She didn't stick to the shadows as well as she should have. She made mistakes that should've gotten her an arrow through the jugular; if she were still in the Red Room, she would've had a bullet through her eye before she realized what had happened. She's tied to a chair in an abandoned room, and she doesn't know where she is. She can't hear music anymore; there are no footsteps or creaks in the floor to give away a location.

She only knows that she has failed Nadezhda, the only hope she's ever had, the only thing she's ever wanted to protect.

Blue-gray eyes watch her sharply. The man-_Hawkeye_, part of her supplies-is handsome. He carries himself with an easy confidence and grace; he knows he has won. He is left-handed. He holds a bow with a single arrow nocked, with a quiver full of more strapped to his back. His fingers twitch, the muscles in his biceps flex dangerously. She wonders why he hasn't killed her yet.

He waits impatiently for her to speak, for her to say her name.

The part of Natalia Romanova that is the Black Widow and trainee of the Red Room whispers that the sharpshooter already knows the answer. The same part of her snaps, _L__ie_.

"Natasha," she says, and it is almost the truth-the less formal version of her given name.

He smiles; it's twelve different kinds of sweet and a hundred twelve different kinds of dangerous. "Full name, sweetheart. I don't like to kill people until I know who they are."

"Romanoff." And again it is a lie so close to the truth it hurts. "Natasha Romanoff."

* * *

It is nearing midnight, and the gala is finally starting to wind down.

Jose Amador has been eyeing Nadezhda for the past hour in a way that is probably supposed to be seductive. (It makes her whish for Natalia, who has forever been better at taking down marks this way; Nadezhda prefers a rooftop perch and a single shot with a rifle.) She smiles back coyly.

He winks and disappears around the corner; she follows.

As the elevator doors close behind them, he kisses her hungrily, hands gripping her hips. She can taste the alcohol on his tongue. It is strong scotch, and she's always hated the taste, but she forces herself to lean into his touch, even when he tugs at the hidden zipper on the side of her dress.

"Perhaps we should wait for a place more private," she suggests in heavily accented English. He grins wickedly.

"Perhaps," he agrees. His hands fall back to her waist as he kisses along her neck. The stubble along his jawline scratches her skin; his teeth scrape at her earlobe. She shudders, and he grins against her cheek as the elevator doors open.

He tugs at her hand, pulling her along. He tries to kiss her as he walks backward; she giggles when he bumps into a wall. He stops at a door and messily digs a key from his pocket; it takes him several tries to get the door open. He leads her toward the bedroom in the back, pushing her toward the bed and swinging a leg over her waist. As she allows him to kiss her again, she considers her options. A gun would be too loud, a knife too messy. She slides her hands around his neck, stroking her thumbs along his jaws. As he ducks to kiss her collarbone, she uses the leverage to twist sharply and is satisfied to hear a sharp crack. She pushes the dead weight off and stands.

She has hidden a backpack in the closet. She changes into jeans and a t-shirt, an outfit completely unassuming; no one will think twice if they pass her. She slides her weapons from the holsters. She hides the gun in the waistband of her jeans and the knife in her back pocket. There is a light sweatshirt hanging, and she slips it on and tightens her boots one last time before slinging the bag across her shoulders and slipping out of the room without a trace.

The hallways, elevator, and lobby are all empty. She makes sure to stay out of the view of the cameras or with her back turned as she exits onto the dark street. The guests from the party have all gone save for a few smoking beneath a street lamp on the opposite sidewalk; they don't notice her as she heads toward the abandoned building behind the hotel where the sharpshooter had hidden.

The front entrance is locked; all the windows are boarded up. Her stomach drops in anticipation as she looks for another door.

Something feels distinctly wrong. Natalia had said she would take care of it. Nadezhda has known her for fifty-one years; Natalia's version includes a bullet between the eyes without ever moving from the shadows. She should've returned by now.

There is a back entrance; the place is even darker inside than out. Steep stairs lead below ground, and Nadezhda takes them, testing her weight on each before stepping down; surprisingly, they don't creak even once. She doesn't risk a light, but she does slide her gun out of her jeans and leaves the backpack at the foot of the stairs after taking an extra magazine from one of the pockets.

There is only a single door at the end of the hall; as she nears, Nadezhda can make out voices. One is clearly Natalia's and the other is male. She pauses before opening the door, pulling her gun as she goes.

Natalia is tied to a chair in the center of the room; her red hair hangs limply, her dress is torn, her stilettos missing. The man in front of her is sporting a shoulder wound and what is obviously a broken nose. He holds a bow; he draws back an arrow when Nadezhda enters. She is faster; she has her sights fixed on the place between his eyes.

"You don't wanna do that, sweetheart," he warns, turning the bow on Natalia. "You want your friend to live, don't you?" Nadezhda takes a deep breath, but she doesn't lower her weapon. His sharp eyes track her movements, but the arrow is fixed straight over Natalia's heart. "Put the weapon down, we can talk, and no one gets hurt."

"That last part does not seem likely."

He shrugs and lowers the bow before carefully placing it on the ground. He waits. "Your turn, blondie."

Nadezhda bites her tongue and lowers the pistol, but keeps her grip on it. "What do you want to talk about?" she asks carefully.

"A second chance," he says. "A _bezuprechnaya reputatsiya_, if you will." He smirks a little and tilts his head. She is surprised at the Russian; it is an uncommon phrase, and not something that is typically known by those who learn it as a second language.

Her eyes flicker past him to Natalia. "Untie her," she says, jerking her chin at the redhead, "then we can talk."

Natalia's eyes follow him as he unties the rope at he wrists and ankles. She stands carefully; the tatters of her dress fall around her ankles.

The sharpshooter has calm gray eyes that flicker back and forth between the two of them. "My name is Clint Barton. I would like to offer you a job."

* * *

**I threw some Spanish in there because languages.**

_**Bailas conmigo**_**?-Dance with me?**

_**Desde luego**_**-Of course**

_**Qué clase de chica crees que soy?**_**-What kind of girl do you think I am?**

_**Esperemos que el tipo en mi cama**_**-Hopefully the kind in my bed**

_**Hasta luego,**** bella**_**-See you later, beautiful**

**The Russian translations are at the beginning.**

**I would like to thank Hawkling for the very positive and encouraging review; I hope this chapter lived up to your expectations. And also thank you to those few who favorited/followed after the last chapter. **

**I hope no one thinks I've portrayed Natasha as OOC. I've always seen as her fiercely loyal and protective-if she has something to protect. **

**Please, feel free to leave a review.**


	3. Interlude: Hope

**So, this is an interlude, telling the previous events from Clint's perspective. There will be a tiny appearance by Coulson, and also lots of Barton's snarkiness as he realizes who he is dealing with, and of course how he feels about these two. Enjoy.**

**I don't own anything you recognize.**

* * *

**Cicatrix**

She is already scarred beyond comprehension, but she will not make it out of this new life unscathed.

* * *

**Interlude - Hope**

_**Rio Gallegos, Argentina - May 3,** **2001**_

Clint Barton hates Argentina. It's never been his favorite country before tonight, but now he absolutely _loathes_ the place.

He's been stuck on the building for nearly three hours now. It is not the longest he's ever gone without moving, but it ranks among the top for most uncomfortable. The roof is mostly loose gravel and broken pieces of concrete and brick. It digs into stomach even through the tactical vest and makes the gun holster at his thigh press awkwardly into his skin.

The Black Widow is more infamous than famous, and it makes her even more of a pain. No one ever remembers her, no one ever suspects her for the murders she leaves in her wake. It has taken long-ass research by more than half of SHIELD's technical department to get a name and a shitty photo for him to go on.

He has to admit, the photo doesn't do her justice. She's a petite woman, with hair redder than he's ever seen and sharp, pale features that make her more striking than conventionally beautiful, but beautiful nonetheless. She moves with an easy grace he recognizes in himself—she is a killer, and a good one.

He finds her again through the scope of his rifle (as much as he prefers his bow, it is not convenient from this position). She is again talking to a blond even smaller than she. They sip champagne from crystal glasses and smile and carry an easy conversation. He notices the subtle way Natalia Romanova's posture changes, the way her spine relaxes just enough. He thinks he's seen her before, maybe on the street while tracking Romanova. This is not the mark, he realizes. This is someone she knows, someone she is comfortable with.

It hits him like a train.

This is a partner.

He taps the communicator in his ear and hisses sharply, "There are two of them, Coulson. Fucking _two of them_. Who the fuck said the Black Widow works alone?"

There is a sharp throat-clearing on the other end of the comm. "What do you mean _two of them_, Barton?"

Barton adjust the scope a little and tilts his head to watch them more closely. They stand close together, like friends would, and despite the smiles and drinks, he can tell this is more serious than just small talk.

"I mean Romanova has a partner," he says to confirm his handler's suspicions. "There's a little blond with her, even tinier than she is, which I didn't think was possible. They've stayed together most of the night. It's not like she's talking to some guest and doing the whole _nice-to-meet-you-I'm-gonna-kill-you-later_ thing 'cause I've _done_ that, and this doesn't look like it."

Phil Coulson sighs, and Clint can only imagine the way he pinches the bridge of his nose as he pauses his pacing. "_Damn it_," he curses. He's yelling, but not at Clint. "_Get Fury on a line, now, Smith. Tell him it's urgent._ Barton, you're going to have to make the call about how this is going to go down."

Barton wants to yell and curse, because _really fucking seriously_, how the _hell_ is he supposed to take down two highly-trained Russian assassins by himself. He snaps out a terse "On it," and mutes the comm before Coulson can get another word in. He turns back to the party, finding the two girls in the same position. The blond glances out the window, straight towards his hiding spot. Something in the back of his mind chants _fuckfuckfuck._ As soon as she disappears into the crowd, he jumps from his spot and darts across the roof, sticking to the darkest shadows.

At least one of them will come looking for him. He's a threat, and threats have to be taken out; it's the first thing you learn as a contract assassin.

There's a fire escape at the farthest corner of the building, and he shimmies down it as quickly as he can. There is no one on the streets, so he slips toward the hotel where the party in being held. The door opens and Natalia Romanova exits in a deep emerald gown, carrying a single gun in one hand. When she turns, she sees him and fires, but the shot just grazes his shoulder as he jumps out of the way.

She charges, but Clint has the advantage. He's bigger, and he saw her coming. He can feel the burn from her bullet at his shoulder and the blood dripping down his arm, but he kicks the gun from her hand and drags her to an alley. She kicks at him, and a sharp, four-inch heel strikes his shin. He winces and tightens his grip on her wrists. "Come with me quietly or I will find your little blond friend and we'll do this the hard way."

She spits a Russian curse at him and jerks her head back; he feels his nose crack on impact and he sighs, hitting her over the head hard enough to knock her out. She drops like a rock, and he catches her around the waist, lowering her gently to the ground. He swipes up her gun from the middle of the street and ditches her heels before scooping her up and carrying her back to the basement of the abandoned building.

* * *

Romanova comes around slowly, blinking green eyes open sluggishly. Barton gives her almost a minute to get her bearings and look around the room before he speaks.

"What's your name?"

He knows the answer, of course, and he would bet she knows that, but he wants to hear her answer anyway. She doesn't speak for several moments, and the silence makes his fingers twitch around his bow string. He had hidden his favorite weapon earlier in the evening so he could trade if the rifle was no longer needed.

"Natasha," she says finally, and he almost quirks an eyebrow. Instead, he smiles slowly.

"Full name, sweetheart. I don't like to kill people until I know who they are."

She takes a slow breath. "Romanoff. Natasha Romanoff."

He watches her carefully. She's even prettier up close. He can see the blue in her green eyes and the smooth slope of her nose, her sharp jawline and long lashes. Her hair is a mess of fiery curls that make her skin look snowy in the dim light. She watches him back just as warily.

"Who's the blond?" he asks, tilting his head at her.

She blinks, and for half a second she looks like a trapped animal, but then her face is a smooth mask again. A corner of her mouth tilts up in a smile. "Who?"

"You know." Clint takes a step closer. "Hair as blond as yours is red. Tiny little thing, a couple inches shorter than you, pretty as a doll. You guys spent a lot of time talking tonight. You seemed to know each other."

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," she says innocently, tilting her head back at him in a motion similar to his.

He thinks of the scared look on her face and remembers himself, several years ago. He wonders if he could do for her what was done for him. He wonders if he could give her a second chance, if she would take it. He realizes all she wants is to protect the girl with her.

"I could help you protect her." Her face goes cold. "That's what you want, isn't it?" he says, and he can finally see a reaction brewing beneath her careful façade. "That's why you came alone. You would rather die than put her in danger willingly. What's her name?"

She swallows thickly. "That is not any of your business," she says stiffly; he can hear just a hint of a long-forgotten Russian accent drawing out her vowels in a surprising show of emotion.

He tries a different approach. "I don't want to kill you," he says instead of pushing her. She is much more dangerous than she looks. He wants her at SHIELD, even if he does know the price he will have to pay- Coulson's wrath. "Do you want to die, Natalia Romanova?"

Again, she swallows. "Sometimes," she admits, and his eyebrows shoot up at the honest answer. "I have been alive a long time." Her head cocks to one side suddenly, and when Clint listens more carefully, he can hear soft footsteps on the stairs. "If you are going to kill me, Hawkeye," she begins softly, "then do so, but leave Nadezhda be."

_Hope_. That's what the girl is to Romanova- she is hope.

The footsteps come closer, and he has made his decision before the door even opens.

* * *

**So, I'm not totally happy with this, but I'm also tired of staring at this and waiting for better words to come along, so it is what it is for now. Reviews are much appreciated!**


End file.
